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Sunday, October 28, 2012


Sara and I just purchased our second home. It is a large, mature home that has been tastefully updated on the inside, and that has room for me to get lost in leisurely landscaping on the outside. There is a wrap around porch that will welcome me and my wife on nice evenings for a glass of Malbec or Syrah or whatever my glass will hold. My kids and my dogs will have room to romp at will. There is room for them to create chaos and have hideouts and secret little places that only they will know of. There is room to grow.

So in anticipation of our move, we are packed up our things. All of our memories shoved into plain, drab, brown boxes temporarily, only to be unveiled again at our new home. One of my dearest friends told me it will be like opening presents, a much needed boost since I had been an emotional mess since the boxes appeared. I was not sad to leave our home. I was and am excited about our new home. But, I think I was overwhelmed with leaving all Sara and I had created there in that little house. There was a bit of sadness even though I understood I would be taking the memories with me.

That little house is the house where Sara and I grew together as a couple. We learned more about each other there and we relished in each other. Everything that young couples do, we did and we enjoyed every minute of it. I learned how to love and how to be loved and I will take that with me every where I go.

Lexi, our old boxer lady, grew old in that house. She's reluctantly continuing her journey to graydom in our new house. I am prematurely joining here. That house was her first place with a fence so she could run freely without fear of a leash or chain stopping her short. That is where she learned what being a dog is all about.

It was between the four walls of that old house that Sara and I decided to create a family. Okay. Fine. We conceptualized it there and got basted at the doctor's office, but either way, We brought two squealing bundles of joy home to that house, a Graisyn Quinn in October of 2008 and a Kazmer Joseph in May of 2012. Our lives haven't been the same since.

We made friends at that house. We watched their children grow into strong, intelligible young adults. They accepted our new little family with open arms, no questions asked. Gay, straight, or otherwise, they never cared. Together we shared bon fires and birthdays and dinners and occasion after occasion. I don't have many friends, but I think that's what friends are for.

Sara changed careers while we lived in that house. She stuck her middle finger straight up in the air at her job and began the process of educating herself to care for people. If you have ever met my wife, nursing is the perfect career for her. She is empathetic and compassionate and brutally honest. Her decisions are calculated and she makes time to understand each and every patient she touches. She is what a great nurse should be.

One day Sara and I got a bug up our butts to save the world. We did so in that house. We didn't have the room for it. We didn't have the time for it. But, we did it nonetheless. We fostered boxer dogs in that small, old house. It was wonderful. We will do it again someday, but meanwhile we are getting ourselves settled. We are getting Sara finished with school and myself started with school, and we are raising our very young family. If this journey brought us nothing more than a bout of patience, it brought us our Abbott, a big, goofy, white boxer boy.

To some people a house is just a house. I can't live by that philosophy. It feels too cold for me. To me a house is where you build a family and a house with a family is a home. We built a home at our old house and we will build a home at our new (old) house. I can't wait.

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